Preparations complete, the two groups split, saying their goodbyes to one another and other friends in the Guild, as they head out on their respective trips, one heading up the Stairs towards the Madhouse, the other heading down towards the githzerai religious center known as the Floating City, each hoping for the best on their own trip.

Climbing the stairs, the four travelers leave the Guild behind, slowly making their ascent to the plane of madness. Like any trips up, it's both monotonous and tiring, but thankfully unlike some, the scenery isn't wholly fixed on this trip. The journey on this trip takes them through the Sunbeam region, where beams of light stab through the fog at strange angles and odd tints from unknown sources, brightening up an otherwise-dim planar path as the colors interplay with one another, forming odd designs on the stonework stairs and platforms as the fog drifts about.

Unfortunately, the light soon fades as the group draws closer to the Madhouse gate, as even what little light normally present in this area begins to fade. Though what remains is still just enough for even those without enhanced eyesight to see by, it's certainly not an auspicious start, though not entirely unexpected either thanks to the nature of their destination. Continuing on, the foursome presses forward, eventually reaching the described jumping-off point. A tiny, well-aged cobblestone landing stands here, looking about half-solid. On the left side of the landing, a rickety archway stretches, its badly-kept wooden door clattering slightly from an unfelt breeze.

Through the door, the chatter of a tavern's late evening can be heard, though with a strange, anxious tone, as if those involved daren't stop talking and let the natural sound come forth. On the far side of the doorway, a wooden hallway stretches forward before them, with not enough torches lining the walls to keep the darkness out. Light flickers from a half-open door at the far end, some 75 feet distant. Under the chatter that echoes down, a light whistling can be heard, almost seeming to stab at their ears if they focus on it for too long, though the building and its inhabitants seem to be doing a good job of keeping them from doing so unless they try. Unfortunately, it does less in this room to prevent the icy chill carried with the sound that lightly blows through the hall, almost forcing a shiver to rise up. By all perception, they certainly seem to have reached their destination.

Alvar really wasn't sure it was such a good idea leaving his heavier (and more protective) armor at the Guilds encampment, but that was a decision he had to live with. Walking up the stairs had been one of the first few times he had done so, and although he had a nagging feeling this would be the most pleasant time during their mission. Trying to strike up a few conversations here and there, much without success it would seem, the knight instead let his eyes gaze away at the beautiful light-play they saw as they entered the Sunbeam region.

His blonde hair was at the moment held up by a rather thin strip of crimson red cloth that served as a sweatband, and to keep his hair from his eyes. His armour, the same as the one he'd been wearing before, squeaked softly as he moved, yet with enough patience the repetitive sound would go out of focus. Unless you were the sort that was bothered about something like that.

Strapped to his belt was the usual arrangements of pouches, field flasks and his two swords, their scabbards thudding every now and then against each other and working a disturbing and random rhythm with the sound of his armor. Finally on his back next to his backpack was his large, heavy wooden shield, framed in steel and sparsely decorated but for an inscription along the upper section.

His face seemed to smile more or less by itself, even when he wasn't paying it attention, yet from time to time a worried look would come over his face; a look growing more and more frequent the closer they came to the Madhouse.

The sight and sounds of people, despite somewhat strained, was enough to make him regain some of his former relief.

"I would guess this is the entrance to the..." he thought for a second, "Mad House we are looking for. Would it that we rest, I would have a word with the local men to see if we can find some directions." he spoke with an almost apologetic tone. It seemed he was unsure how to properly function in this group, perhaps he simply wasn't used to working in parties where he wasn't the obvious leader.

Heading through the corridor, the travelers follow the sounds of people, the door to the Staircase falling shut behind them. Walking down the hallway, they soon reach the far door, spying on the other side exactly what they hoped to see: people, at least two-and-a-half dozen gathered in merriment and drink, two things which often find themselves going together in lands such as this. Some of the smiles may be forced, and nervous glances towards the door or over the shoulder may be spotted almost constantly from someone here; there may be the occasional tic or burst of nervous energy; one person may be staring at his mug with no noise but a constant, quiet growl. But no one's trying to stab someone else here, and that's better than you might find in most Lower Planar pubs, at least.

Wandering through yet another pub with rowdy customers. Again, the feeling that something was... off here. Or perhaps familiar? Second time in two days... do I really belong here? Live here? Trivale drank in the sights, wondering if something was wrong with him. He had been practically handed a clue to his past but...

The half-demon stopped, realizing that he should figure out what the others were looking to do here. I suppose our contact is here somewhere. Still, it felt like he shouldn't be here. And he can't help wondering if, just maybe what he'd said about being in serious trouble with someone wasn't the truth.

Theller adjusted his leather armor and pack, stretched his wing muscles, checked that he had both his crossbows and his dagger within reach and clapped the butt of his spear (which he had picked up from the tent where he was sleeping before leaving) twice against the floor of the landing before stepping into the Madhouse with his new companions. He could infer how dangerous this situation could possibly be - he was in the Lower Planes, after all, with drink flowing freely - and so he was rather surprised that it seemed to be rather peaceful in the tavern, especially considering the name Madhouse. To an adventurer, surprises were bad ninety-nine times out of a hundred; even if he had a sheath for his spear, Theller didn't think he'd be using it at that moment.

(OOC: I was about to make reference to his crossbows when it occurred to me that I forgot to ask about your policy on loading crossbows for the first shot - can he keep them wound indefinitely (from a rules standpoint, not a standpoint of proper crossbow care)? Like, does he have a safety on them?)

"Tell you what, Leto, I won't fight with you. Zeus' wives are pretty tough customers. You have my permission to boast openly that you have beaten the daylights out of me."-Hermes, the Iliad (Stanley Lombardo, translator) Book 21

(Nah, no sense having him carry around a wound crossbow that could snap against his leg if he nudges the trigger against something. Better to leave it slack, at least indoors.)

"Tell you what, Leto, I won't fight with you. Zeus' wives are pretty tough customers. You have my permission to boast openly that you have beaten the daylights out of me."-Hermes, the Iliad (Stanley Lombardo, translator) Book 21

Zant followed the others, muttering something to himself in Aquan as he glanced around nervously. He didn't like this place, so much so that even his contemplation of the holy teachings of Istishia did little to set him at ease. At least he could be grateful for the presence of his armour; his usual attire would do little to shield him from that biting cold.

He took a quick look around the room, searching for a seasoned looking patron who seemed like they'd be approachable and not too deep in their cups.

The travelers enter the room, drawing the notice of some, but most seem to prefer ignoring them. As Zant begins his search for an approachable person, He catches the eye of one fellow, returning the look with a terror-filled expression. As he spills his mug and ducks under his table, Zant gets the idea that this fellow probably isn't a good choice for advice. He continues his search, soon spotting a fellow in the corner that may suit his needs. He looks to be a dwarf on the older side of adulthood, with grey speckling his otherwise-dark hair and beard. He seems to be going against type and abstaining from the alcoholic "delights" that fill this tavern, unless that soup bowl of his is filled with something other than noodles and broth.

Meanwhile, Trivale and Theller find their attention distracted by a leather-armored human staring at their noticably non-human qualities with dismissive disapproval, his arms crossed as he slowly shakes his head at them. "Pft. You call those horns? I could grow better horns than that. And those feathes? I've made better plumage in my sleep! You think that's the best you can do, eh? Come on, show some improvement!"

Alvar's not free from notice either, as a nearby guest tugs at his arm, trying to pull him into a free chair at his table where two others sit. A trio of elves, they seem to be; two men and a woman, all armorless, all with mugs or glasses of various drinks in hand. He speaks up, speaking just barely slow enough to follow, his eyes flicking around over Alvar. "We needed a fourth. Bad luck to have an empty, chair, after all! The name's Daenthin, friend. and you? Have a drink, why don't you? Good drinks here, I'm sure there's something you'd like. Everyone likes soemthing here, plenty to like, plenty to not like. Don't think I've caught your name yet, by the way." As he rambles, his friend reaches over, seemingly brushing some lint off of Alvar's shoulder. And as this goes on, the third of the elves sits still and utterly quiet, watching him with an inscrutable gaze as she slowly sips from her glass.

Alvar turns quickly to face the elven trio as soon as his arm is tugged, a look of both interest and precaution flashing on his face before his smile settles again. A part of him, big part, would like nothing better than to sit down and join in the drinking, perhaps build up some courage for the task ahead, or perhaps incidentally forcing himself to do it another day.

When the second one begins to brush away seemingly invisible lint from his shoulders however, his smile twists just a little into a clearly strained one.

"It would seem you have found yourself in a most unfortunant position," he begins, backing only slightly to prevent further primming and propping, "but alas this one is on a task that requires a presence of mind unbefuddled by the haze of alcohol." he pauses and tries to give a small shrug, "there are many more patrons here, my friend, who can share your company, and once I have returned from my task perhaps I would still find you here. Would that be the case, I would not mind sharing a cup or two with you."

As Alvar tries to excuse himself from his table, Daenthin shakes his head disappointedly. "Oh, no, no, it must be you. After all, you're tableless, and all these folks have tables already. Tables and chairs and glasses and mugs and everything else they need. But you've got nothing at all, and you must have something, so here you are, and here we are, so let's have a drink, eh? Still haven't caught your name yet, by the way. Funny word, name. Neeeey-ehm. Sounds more like something you'd call a horse than a person, eh? Of course, you're not a horse. No, I know the difference between a human and a horse. One eats hay, and the other sells bread!" He chuckles nervously, trailing off as he thinks. "Well, that joke works better in Elven. Doesn't really translate well into Common, does it? But come on, go ahead, order something up and let's try to ignore our problems, hmm? Not a problem if you don't notice it. And I still haven't caught your name."

While Alvar deals with the fast-talking, barely understandable elf, Zant's dwarven patron looks up at him as he asks his query. "...You might. Can't know what a person's going to do until they do it. Or a non-person, either." With a shudder, he looks back to his soup, slurping at it quietly.

Despite the absurdity of a human attempting to degrade his feathers, Theller found himself self-consciously smoothing his wings out, and even glanced down to make sure none of the feathers he kept dyed had been damaged or twisted. "I'm sure you have beautiful plumage," the raptoran gamely told the human, fixing him a winning smile. "But for my own part this is the best I can do for myself. I was planning on adding an extra row of colored feathers, however."

"Tell you what, Leto, I won't fight with you. Zeus' wives are pretty tough customers. You have my permission to boast openly that you have beaten the daylights out of me."-Hermes, the Iliad (Stanley Lombardo, translator) Book 21

"Oh, and because of that you left your own horns at home, is it?" asked Trivale with a smirk. It was a confidence he didn't quite feel, considering that he wished he DIDN'T have horns. But perhaps the man in front of him did. Or perhaps there was more to him than what he could see. "Or perhaps you could grow better? I'd like to see it."

Alvar hid his frustration with the elf rather well, he nodded a select few times, grinned at the mention of joke (and indeed, he had not really caught it, but best be polite) and as it became more and more obvious the elf wasn't really wearing his full set of armor, so to speak, it became at once easier to speak.

"Indeed one could say I am tableless," he began as the man paused, "and mugless, and chairless even, but I find myself naught without purpose in these parts. I would like nothing less than to share a mug of wine, ale or any other of the fine spirits they might offer in this place, but I have a task; a mission of some importance that cannot allow the dulled mind or the blurred sight one is so prone to attain during the influence."

"As for my name, I am Alvar Feldtspar, a Knight Errant of the Planeswalkers Guild..." a tiny little thought wormed its way into his head as they talked. A simple drink wouldn't really hurt, they were looking for information of Styx, and these fellows might perhaps have the facts they were after.

"Now, that introductions have been handled, perhaps we can strike a deal that is to everyone's agreement." he leaned a hand on the table, "Me and my comrades are after a rather dangerous component attainable in these maddening lands, and would find any information of pertaining this ingredience much needed. What say ye this round of drinks is on me, and you do your best to help me with my task?"

Every thought of staying sober and alert seemed to slowly get pushed into the back of his head with the convenient excuse that they were, after all, after information that could prove vital. Any help would be valuable.

At Theller's response, the oddly-self-confident human chortles. "Good! If you settled for what you've got, you'd never end up as well-off as I am. Maybe someday with work and practice, you can reach closer to my level!" At Trivale's comment, though, his veneer begins to fall away, as his eyes go wide with worry. "...Show you? Here, in front of all these people? No, no...that wouldn't be proper! Growth is a private thing, after all. What sort of twisted individual are you?"
"Sir? I ain't no knight, so stop beating around the bush and out with it, already!" Looking up, and meeting Zant's eyes with a glare of irritation, the dwarf gives an annoyed puff as he nods towards the chair across from him. "Go ahead, ask your little questions. I don't...hmph. Suppose I do have all day, but it doesn't mean I wanna waste it." He drops his spoon with a clatter, leaning back in his chair as best he can, though he can't quite stop stopping over entirely.
Daenthin grins at Alvar's offer, looking quite pleased with himself at achieving the small concession. "A Knight? Oh, I've met knights before! Knights of old, knights of new, knights of the post, starry knights, stormy knights, all sorts of knights! Never met an errant knight, though. Good on you for admitting your flaws, we can't get anywhere if we don't recognize our mistakes! Yes, yes, this sounds like a wonderful agreement indeed! A round of drinks, around and around the table!" He turns the the bar, shouting out an order. "Five...wait, four more ales!" And looking back to Alvar, he nods for a bit longer than he should, before realizing what he's doing and stopping himself. "A task, you say? Oh, there's many tasks out there, we can't go anywhere without tasks. Tasks to be done, tasks to be found, but what's your task, Alvar? Please, tell us and we'll try to help you if you tell us, but you haven't yet told us what it is. What's the hold up already, Alvar, out with it! No secrets at this table!"

His two companions continue their watch over Alvar, the nearest of the two finally speaking up, his voice subdued and barely audible over his friend. "Don't knights clean their armor? So dusty, so very dusty..."

"Very well then," Alvar said as the drinks were brought forth. He paid the barman the required sum and carried the drinks over to the table, setting them down for his newfound "friends".

"It is an unfortunate series of events that has made me the... knight I am today, and indeed it has been a while since armorcare was the most exciting event on a day's schedule," he paused a little to sip at his brew. It tasted at first fairly good, yet much like the plane that housed it, the taste soon seeped away into a bitter hollowness that only made him thirstier. "As you might have guessed, me and my comrades are planewalkers, and as for our mission..."

He leaned in slightly, hoping the others would follow suit, "We are after water from the very river of Death itself."

He paused and drank again, having momentarily forgotten the taste. He was soon reminded.

"We are here to claim a bottle of the River Styx's foul content, which is why I am rather in a hurry. I'd like to not spend more time in Pandemonium than is absolutely necessary."

At Zant's question, the dwarf pulls his head up, glaring at Zant with a fury greater than you'd think a mortal could possess. His lips curl down into a grimace, and he almost spits his words at the Genasi. "What, are you here to mock me? Someone tell you about the poor lost dwarf, and you thought you'd have a laugh? You think this is funny, you blue bastard?"
Downing his glass, Daenthin pays no notice to the quality of the drink, instead seeming merely happy to have a glass of something. His companions sip at their own mugs, the man keeping a disapproving stare on Alvar's leather while the woman suddenly slumps, a wave of sorrow apparently passing over her apropos of nothing. "The river? You want to go there? Oh, that might be bad. But most things are bad down here. Not much room for good. Well, more than some. Well, a few drops here and there. Well! How about a well? Plenty of water in wells. Better than going to the Styx. Can't break your bones, but it can break your brains. Most brains don't need a break. Some do. Sometimes mine does, pounding, pounding, pounding, but no wind in here! Keeps it away, the walls, the noise, no wind here, it's all outside, and we're safe from it, it can't get us here!"

"Oh, you mustn't mind my friend," Theller said. "He doesn't know any better." He clapped Trivale on the shoulder lightly with one taloned hand and tried to seem as non-threatening as possible. "Of course growth is a private subject," he said soothingly.

"Tell you what, Leto, I won't fight with you. Zeus' wives are pretty tough customers. You have my permission to boast openly that you have beaten the daylights out of me."-Hermes, the Iliad (Stanley Lombardo, translator) Book 21

Trivale looks at the dwarf, not quite sure what to make of... well, any of this. "Um... wait, what?" And then he sort of caught on. Still confused, he replied 'Oh, err, yes... yes... sorry abou that. I didn't know. Just that... well." Trivale looks over the dwarf for a moment before finishing "I'm sensitive about my horns, is all."

"...Yes. Yes, of course you are. I don't see why you wouldn't be. New growth is always sensitive. Takes time to adjust. Give it time, you'll be right as rain, eh? Don't force it, though. That's...that's not good. You have to ease into it. If you don't..." With a wince, he cuts himself off, clenching his right hand and shaking it out, as if it had a sudden cramp. As he does, a bit of oddness draws their attention. He seems to be missing a finger on that hand - not as if it was cut off, but as if he was born with only four fingers, spaced as you might expect. It's a bit smaller for the loss, slightly smaller than his more normal-looking left hand, and his attention seems to drift as he focuses on whatever pain he might be feeling. Shortly, he gets himself under control, jamming the oddly-deformed hand into his pocket as he notices the attention. His eyes seem to clear a little, as the corners of his mouth droop, a bit of lucidity passing over his features.

Alvar gave a somewhat worried look as the elven woman began her rambling. He sipped his drink in silence as she spoke, wondering once again if it had perhaps been wiser to have gone to Limbo instead.

But he waved those thoughts away as the woman finished. He looked over at Daenthin and hoped the elf would catch his subtle "Is she completely right in her brainbox?" look.

"Indeed, I have heard some measure of stories regarding that most foul river," he winced as once again he was reminded how... stale the drink tasted, "yet there is no other place we can go. And if the reward is a cure for its horrible effects, then I shall certainly pull my share to attain it."

Pausing for a bit after Zant finishes speaking, his glare fades to a general scowl. The dwarf slumps once more in his chair. Looking to the side, he orders a drink for Zant before speaking.

"...Must be fate deciding to twist the knife a little more, then. I know the river. Found myself there...I don't even know how long ago now. And whatever you want, I'm not going back there."
Ignoring his friend but for a small frown, Daenthin nods. "Well, there isn't much we can say to help. Somewhere most folks choose to avoid. Not useful here, no boats, but it can still clear your mind if you're unlucky. A clear mind on Pandemonium's something to avoid, in most places it's something to avoid but here in the Lower Planes especially. We can tell you about the plane, but not much to say about the river. Black water, watch your step, easier to stay safe but you still shouldn't sip from it."

With a rare pause in his speech, Daenthin thinks for a bit, before adding one note with pure seriousness. "And avoid the snails."

"Why are we here?" Theller repeated. "Just passing through and seeing the planes. Might take some of the water from the Styx home for a souvenir, my friends and I, from the headwaters if you know how to get there from here. Nice plane, this."

"Tell you what, Leto, I won't fight with you. Zeus' wives are pretty tough customers. You have my permission to boast openly that you have beaten the daylights out of me."-Hermes, the Iliad (Stanley Lombardo, translator) Book 21

Zant felt a pang of sympathy for the dwarf. The entirety of his life lost to the mystic waters and to end up here of all places.

"I would not ask such a thing of you, of course." he said, speaking softly out of respect for the fellow's sorrows. "Directions, however, would be greatly welcomed. In return I can ensure that your misfortune will have brought you more than woe."

"Nice? Nice?" The strange man begins to laugh, shaking his head at Theller. They can see he's squeezing the strangely-shaped hand into a tight fist in his pocket, as he abruptly cuts his laughter off, staring not at, but through the two of them, his head still shaking as he clenches his eyes shut.

"...'snot right. Can't do it. I used to, but..." His breath is turning more ragged now, his voice quavering. "...Can't change back. The wind...can't change back. Please...change me back!" Opening his eyes, he lunges at the two, grabbing at the first one he can reach. "Change me back! I know you can, I can see you!" No reaction is drawn from the crowd; most don't notice. Some seem to be simply choosing not to.
As the four-fingered man beseeches his companions, Zant's drink arrives, dropped before him by a wavy-haired man that looks to have seen far better days in his life. The seemingly-permanently-nameless dwarf waits for him to begin drinking, sitting quietly as he stares at his own soup bowl.

"...The brick gate. Head out through it and down the tunnels. Stick to the left, and don't climb the walls or you won't know which one's left. After a few branches, you'll reach it. But watch out for the natives."

Trivale is just as surprised as anyone as the man lunges at him yelling something about changing him back... This one's crazy, totally nuts. his mind yells at him, but he can't help but have a pang of sympathy for the unusual man. Part of him still has to wonder what the man sees. What is it that he's so afraid of? .... what could have messed him up so badly as to be like THIS?

It was hard not to wonder if the man was in the same state of confusion that Trivale himself was in.

"Please... could you just let go of me?" Was there any right way to handle... this?

The man continues his grip on Trivale, his look of frustration quickly giving way to anger as the tiefling shows no signs of being able to help him. An animalistic growl begins to issue from him, as the situation draws the attention of others in the bar, including his other companions. Teeth bared, he snaps at Trivale, who's just barely able to twist out of the way of getting nipped on the throat.

Suddenly, he's pulled back, a pair of apathetic-looking men in black leather taking hold of him and pulling him off Trivale. His anger gives way to whimpery tears as he's carted off by the men, still begging to be changed back as he's pulled out the door of the tavern. Soon, even the sound of that is gone, inaudible over the din of the pub. Looks of slight confusion are visible on some of the customers and serving staff, of pity, of irritation. But on no one can be seen a look of surprise.

Zant had turned to watch the spectacle with mild trepidation. He was glad to see his companions were unharmed and the aggressor had been carted off. He'd need to ask them about what happened. For now, though, he had thanks to give.

"My apologies, those ones are my fellows." he said, gesturing to the now un-harassed Theller and Trivale with one hand as he produced ten gold pieces from a pouch with the other. "I owe you thanks; hopefully these coins will help still the storm. If you do not mind the asking, however, I would be intrigued to know what you will do with yourself."

Theller didn't take his eyes off the door the man was pulled through for more than a few seconds at a time while he was sidestepping his way over to where Zant was, his wings furling and unfurling with his confusion. "That..." he said when he'd returned to his companion. "That was...odd. I've not a clue what to make of what just happened. Were you watching?" He cast about with his eyes for Alvar and saw that he was in no danger, then went back to anxiously watching the door.

"Tell you what, Leto, I won't fight with you. Zeus' wives are pretty tough customers. You have my permission to boast openly that you have beaten the daylights out of me."-Hermes, the Iliad (Stanley Lombardo, translator) Book 21

Taking the gold, the dwarf pockets it, giving Zant a small nod even though it seems to be giving him no greater comfort. And as the three regroup, Theller spots one of the two men returning, approaching the trio. He's a pale, blond-haired human, and speaks in a slight monotone, interrupted only by the constant sniffling, as if he's getting over a cold. He looks over Trivale, almost appraising him.

"Do you need a healer? I don't see any injuries."

Beyond this, he seems to be ignoring Zant and Theller entirely. Not to mention Alvar, who perhaps wisely is still somewhat unassociated with his allies at the moment, depending on how things turn out.

"Err, no no. I'm fine. At least I'm pretty sure I'm fine." What was with that guy? Am I going to be like him too? What am I supposed to do? A feeble grin crossed Trivale's face. That man was clearly out of his mind, and yet... how much of his fate would be Trivale's? What had happened to him? The unhappy thoughts welled up in his mind with no outlet other than to press on and pray that it was just a madman's rantings...

"Hmph. Try and keep it that way. Don't add to the trouble," he says as he looks across the three of them, Alvar still unnoticed. His piece said, the black-garbed man sniffles as he leaves the travelers once more, the rest of the customers no longer paying them any notice now that the scene's over. The wind whistles inside for the brief bit the door stands open, taking the chance to send a shudder down the spines of all present, native or guest. But as the door falls shut, it's sealed off to the outside once more.

The four have found their information, received advice, and encountered the horrors of madness. What happens next is in their hands.

"My apologies, but I believe the time has come for me to depart. Some words for you, though: life itself is a river and all those who live have a choice put to them. Either they are to be the rock, sitting stubbornly and destined to be gradually worn away or they are the fish, accepting the power of the fickle currents yet learning to work with them."

He inclined his head to the dwarf as a mark of respect. "May Istishia watch over you." He then looked to his companions, waiting to follow their lead.

Unfortunately, Zant's advice doesn't seem to rest well on the dwarf, glaring once more to the genasi. But he lets the matter drop, going back to his soup with no further word. Perhaps with time his anger and frustration will ease, but for now, such seems to be his only companion.